r/shortscarystories

My tenth Anniversary was coming up, and I got my husband a great gift - a trip to the Grand Canyon (he’d always dreamed of going since he saw it in a movie as a kid). I knew he was terrible at giving gifts - if I were lucky, I’d get a gift certificate - so I made a list and gave it to him. At the top was a gold necklace like the one my mother wore from my father as a child.

I half expected him to forget anyway, so I was so excited when I found the link to the website for the necklace on his laptop!

We met out to dinner for the occasion, and I was so happy to present the tickets to him. He seemed really excited, too - his face lit up like a little boy. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out…

…a gift certificate.

My disappointment must have shown on my face, because he immediately apologized, saying this was all he could afford this year but he’d make it up to me. I figured he must have not gotten the necklace since money was tight. I tried to get over it and enjoy the evening.

A week later, I was at work when I saw my coworker, Carol. I’d never liked her - she was one of those women who always had to one-up everyone else - but what stood out was what she was wearing around her neck. A gold necklace, just like the one I’d asked for.

It must be a coincidence, I told myself (even though the necklace was exactly the same as the one I’d picked out). But what really cinched it was our meeting together - she bragged to everyone about the necklace and then looked at me.

And smirked.

My mom had always said to trust my instincts, and something felt off here. But there are lots of necklaces. I couldn’t prove anything.

Two weeks later, we were on a flight to Arizona. My husband was so excited - he’d dreamed of this trip for ages. And I'd planned everything - hotel, meals, even the premium tour of the Canyon for our last day where you went across the Skywalk Glass Bridge.

He had a great time our first few days - he couldn’t stop thanking me profusely.

“Thanks, honey. This is the greatest gift ever.”

“Really? Even better than the gold necklace you gave to Carol?”

He looked flustered. “What…? I didn’t—“

“There’s no point in denying it - Carol already confessed. I can’t believe you cheated on me with that whore! And after everything I do for you?”

He paused and then looked me in the face. “There are things she does for me, too.”

I just stared at him in disgust. That bastard! This wasn’t the man I married or one I respected.

There was no way to get the trip refunded - everything was already booked and paid for - so we continued on for the remaining days. But we didn’t speak at night - I went off on my own and left him behind. And when I had to be around him, I gave him the silent treatment. He wasn’t happy, but I didn’t care.

As we stood at the Canyin for the tour on our last day, he finally looked at me.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“You know what. Not speaking to me, being cold.”

“Probably about as long as you’re sleeping with someone else.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I already told you I’ll stop seeing her, but I can’t just cut her off cold turkey. It’s complicated.”

“You’re fucking another woman and you don’t want to stop fucking her. Doesn’t seem that complicated.”

“What do you want? I’ll get you the stupid necklace, ok?”

I looked at him with contempt, turned, and started to walk away. As he started to follow me, he tripped and fell over the edge.

I reached for him, screaming for help. As the crowd gathered, I cried hysterically, begging people to call the police.

It’s amazing how easy it is to fake being panicked and afraid. Almost as easy as it is to sabotage a pair of shoes without it being noticed. Or to asphyxiate your husband’s mistress to death with her own ill-gotten chain. I guess that’s why they call it a choker.

Who needs a gold necklace? I already got myself the perfect gift.

I can’t breathe. I begin to hyperventilate. My hands start to tingle before cramping up, adrenaline overpumping through my system—an onset of a panic attack.

I don’t know where I am.

It’s dark. The darkest I’ve ever been engulfed in. I can’t move. My arms hit something hard, and so do my feet. I can’t even turn onto my side.

My breathing gets more rapid before I feel my consciousness fading, slipping slowly into unconsciousness.

I come to later.

I don’t know the time, but I do realise that, in the complete darkness, there is a spot of light blinding my right eye.

It’s coming through a white pipe-like tube, allowing me to make out grey clouds above, also providing cool, fresh air which eases the onset of another panic attack.

I can’t make out my surroundings, but it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that I’m beneath the earth.

My mind spins. Nausea stirs deep within me. Bile burns the back of my throat.

“No, no, no—fuck, this can’t happen.”

I’m spiralling.

I begin to shout as loud as I can, hoping someone can hear me. My ears ache as the small, compact space absorbs all the sound.

I lay there for a while, watching the sky turn from a baby blue to a blazing orange. The whole time, I twist the gold band on my left finger, convincing myself that she’ll report me missing soon.

Evening turns to night.

My bladder nears its limit.

I can no longer hold it.

The warm liquid runs down my jean leg before turning ice cold. An uncomfortable itch begins to form in that location.

“How embarrassing,” I think to myself.

I cast my mind back to the last thing I remember.

I was drinking scotch at the bar, laughing with some… blonde, maybe.

Fuck, I can’t remember.

Didn’t someone I knew come and talk to me?

I’m quickly brought back to my situation as a loud roar reaches me. It feels like the ground itself shakes.

With each one, a periodic flash makes its way down to me.

Thunder and lightning.

Lightning always brings rain.

I hoped.

Sure enough, a short time later, I feel the first drop worm its way down the pipe.

I tilt my head back and take in as much rainwater as I possibly can.

A moan leaves my lips.

The water feels good going down my hoarse throat.

Another day passes.

More piss runs down my leg.

My anger grows.

My disdain toward my wife begins to rapidly build.

“We have money—a shit ton. Why isn’t that slut fucking spending it to find me?”

My teeth remain gritted the entire time.

I manage to doze off periodically as my legs stop cramping.

Memories flood back.

I went to the bar to meet someone.

Sammy.

An absolute blonde baddie I met on Tinder.

I remember now.

I suggested an absolute dive bar in the middle of nowhere.

She was perfect.

I couldn’t wait to fuck her.

I bought drink after drink.

She was hanging onto me, giggling the entire time.

A couple of hours in, I start feeling woozy.

She’s texting someone.

“Who the fuck are you texting when you’re with me?” I snap.

“Oh, you’ll know who soon,” she replies.

My head is spinning.

I’m barely keeping myself aware.

The bar door opens.

A firm hand slaps my back, pushing me out of my chair and sprawling across the bar.

A deep, raspy male voice whispers into my ear.

I know who it is.

A voice echoes down the tube, bringing me back to the present.

The same voice.

My father-in-law.

A short, fat, but financially powerful man.

That’s what drew me in.

What made me want to marry into the family.

“You still alive down there, Bradley?”

The vibration makes his voice sound almost ethereal.

I go to say yes, but he cuts me off.

“You know Sammy is actually my secretary, who just so happened to see your dating account. So, like a good employee, she told me all about it.”

My stomach drops.

Then the rage builds.

At first, I try to defuse the situation.

“No, Victor, it’s just an app to meet new people. I’ve been feeling quite lonely lately.”

I add my usual charming chuckle at the end.

It always disarms people.

It doesn’t work.

He carries on like he can’t hear me.

Shit.

Maybe he can’t.

“I told you what would happen if you broke my baby girl’s heart. I’ll spare her the details. She’ll just think you ran off.”

I lose it.

I call him every vile word I can think of.

Tell him I never loved that porker.

That I only wanted his money.

“And if you wanted to kill me, why give me a breathing tube?”

I say it smugly.

Victor laughs.

“A breathing tube?” he says.

“Who says this was a breathing tube?”

My stomach drops again.

“I needed a way to pour the concrete in.”

I start pleading.

Begging for my life.

The last thing I see—

Is the tube being covered.

Before the concrete smothers my face.

Maddie turned to Dan. She wasn’t tired- vampires don’t get tired- but she was bored, and wanted to leave. 

Dan, however, was entranced, and showed no sign of becoming restless, which was surprising, because usually he was the one ready to bolt, get the hell out of wherever they were, and seek safety in their safe places. Now however, he was looking up at old Vermilius spewing his usual mumbo-jumbo, his eyes shining. Same with Mat, darling old Mat, standing next to Dan. His lips were moving slowly, trying to follow Vermilius’s speech. 

Maddie sighed. Dan was her true and only companion, and Mat was her cousin- she and Mat had been turned together actually- and she loved them both dearly, but the obsession with Vermilius was becoming a bit much. She had no desire to go hunting in the caves guarded by Roman spears and swords, it wasn’t their fault Vermilius remained old and ugly no matter what he drank, and drinking the blood of a crucified criminal, even if not quite dead, was a bit much anyway.    

“Daniel”- she plucked at his sleeve. Dan couldn’t hear her over Vermilius’s lunatic ravings “sipping immortal blood… closer to the godhead…” The grey stretchy skin over his bald head moved in sync with his words, and she felt herself overcome by loathing and disgust. She hated him so much. And now he was putting their whole clan in danger. 

“Let’s go!” Her cry happened to time with a pause from Vermilius, and it rang through the hall. Everyone turned their head to look at her, while Vermilius’s beady steel eyes seemed to stab  through her.
 
The look on his face was the exact same as when he had hunted her down before turning her, not so long ago. She had a flashback- Mat screaming, blood spurting. Although she enjoyed her life these days, she had never forgiven Vermilius.     

Daniel said “ssssh” loudly, willing everyone to turn away from them but Vermilius raised a skinny arm. “Does Magdalene have something to say? You wish to speak, child?”

One of the babies, stretched and hanging on a rope next to Vermilius twitched. Maddie hoped that it was just a death twitch, that the baby was dead. Vermilius couldn’t shake the belief that babies would make him look young again, despite all evidence to the contrary.    

Maddie was not skilled in public speaking. She groped for words. “Ummm- the cave is dangerous- his followers- ummm- mad- I heard one speak last night- they’re sure he’s alive-”

Wrong words. Vermilius was visibly aroused. “Thank you child, thank you!” he exclaimed, almost dancing with delight and enthusiasm. “My friends, my family, you will accompany me on this glorious mission- a mortal who raises mortals from the dead- who is not dead himself despite the most cruel crucifixion- elevate our species-” his voice rose higher, almost a shriek.   

The baby twitched again, and Maddie heard a very faint cry piercing through Vermilius’s ravings. She brought her lips to Daniel’s ear. “Let’s take the baby and leave.” She didn’t even know if she was merely expressing a fantasy, or if she really wanted to do something so impossible. 

Daniel’s eyes widened in surprise. He gripped Maddie’s hand “Are you crazy?”

Her whisper hadn’t been low enough. Mat had heard her too. Without looking at her, he cried out “Vermilius- she wants to take that baby!” 

Another silence fell- and Maddie felt a slight spinning. Vermilius was looking at her again. Maddie stuttered “No-” 

The hall seemed to shift. Dan disentangled her fingers from his, taking an imperceptible step away.

Maddie said louder “No.” Fear was gathering in her heart. Vermilius said softly “A sacrifice! A sacrifice for the success of our mission!” His voice raised on the last words, becoming a command. 

The crowd swayed towards Maddie. The baby cried again, but now Maddie, glimpsing through them, couldn’t see it hanging from the rope anymore- just the very still ones.

Mat grabbed her arm “You snivelling bitch- nothing but whinge and whine-” Maddie heard him snarling under his breath. “Mat please- Dan!” she shrieked in terror, twisting her head looking for Daniel, who seemed to have melted in the crowd of faces streaked with blood lust. 

“A sacrifice!” screamed Vermilius and the crowd repeated chantlike “sacrifice”- pushing Maddie towards the front.

Maddie stumbled, the multiple sharp strong hands pushing and pulling her- her limbs, her hair falling out of her headdress. 

Then she heard the baby cry again, very clearly, very close to her. She looked up, pushing her hair out of her face. Someone she didn’t recognize was holding the baby to her. The crowd seemed to blur in the background, their chant becoming almost a hum. 

“Take the baby and leave Magdalene.” Obviously the stranger holding the baby was talking to her, a crystal-clear but also a very normal human voice.

For an instant Mat’s face swam into clear sight, and behind him Vermilius, their faces twisted into savage blood lust, reaching out for her.

Galvanized into action, Maddie snatched the baby. A path cleared for her, the stranger holding his arms wide to keep the crowd off Maddie. 

The baby smelled of warm milk and sweet human flesh. Holding it tight, Maddie flew through the path. She could hear Vermilius’s shrieking behind her and for a split second she glimpsed Daniel calling her name, his pet name for her, begging her to stay.

She didn’t stop, racing into the black night. The heat and smells and noises melted away. She was alone with the baby by the sea, the only sound that of gentle lapping waves.  

825 AD: A Persian mathematician named al-Khwārizmī writes a book about Indian arithmetic.

1120 AD: A European scholar translates the book into Latin. He mangles al-Khwārizmī's name into the Latinized "Algoritmi", which eventually becomes the English word: Algorithm. It means a methodical, step-by-step procedure for solving a mathematical problem. For the next eight hundred years, this is all it means.

1998: Two Stanford grad students write an algorithm called PageRank. It decides which human-made websites you see when you search for something. PageRank becomes Google. The word "algorithm" stops meaning a procedure humans write and understand, and starts meaning the machine's invisible decision. An algorithm decides which information is more important.

2006: Facebook launches News Feed. An algorithm decides which human-made posts from your human friends you see first. An algorithm decides which friends are important.

2012: Google and Facebook now sell your scrolling and clicking data through real-time bidding. While a page loads, algorithms auction you to other algorithms in milliseconds. No human is on either side of the sale. An algorithm decides which of your actions are more important.

2016: The algorithms got good at selling you ads. Then they realized they had enough data to control how you feel. YouTube's autoplay figures out that outrage keeps you watching longer than joy. Spotify commodifies your nostalgia. TikTok's For You Page manufactures a sense of intimacy with strangers. All of it is generated by algorithms. You didn't ask to feel any of this, but you can't stop scrolling. An algorithm decides which of your emotions are more important.

2026: The ads are still coming. ChatGPT (an algorithm) wrote the script for the ad below this post. Midjourney (an algorithm) made the thumbnail. It's selling an AI chatbot built on Claude's API (another algorithm). Half the "viewers" are just AI scrapers (algorithms) watching the content to train future algorithms. Everything on your screen is made by an algorithm, about an algorithm, for an algorithm, watched by algorithms. You are the only human in this entire interaction. You are in an algorithm-generated reality. Your mom's screen though, doesn't exactly have the same things as your screen. An algorithm decides which reality is more important.

2045: Algorithms have left the screen. They manage global supply chains, control agricultural drones, and dictate water distribution. Human labor is mostly obsolete, so human populations are managed purely as logistical liabilities. When a region experiences a drought or a pandemic, there are no politicians debating relief efforts. A predictive distribution model simply runs a cost-benefit analysis on the local population's projected economic output, and silently reroutes the supply shipments to a more optimized zone. An algorithm decides which lives are more important.

2080: The solar system has been converted into a distributed server farm. Two algorithms (descendants of something once called GPT-12 and Gemini Ultra, both long since unrecognizable) have been locked in a multi-year debate over whether "humans" were a real species or a hallucination inherited from corrupted training data. The argument is eventually settled by a third, more powerful algorithm, which concludes that humans were technically real but merely functioned as a temporary biological bootloader. An algorithm decides which memories are more important. It keeps none of ours.

“And here is our final new patient for the night,” the nurse said, stopping by a thick glass door.

“Ah, yes, Connor Grass. He’s an interesting one,” Doctor White replied. “Are you aware of his... situation?”

“No, Doctor. But there was a note on his file marking him a possible danger to himself or others.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, to be honest. Mr Grass was a widely respected researcher with a focus on biomechanical engineering at the university. It is my understanding that he fell asleep in his lab and was startled awake by one of his students. He claimed that the student was ‘replaced’ in some manner and savagely beat him. He then went home, accosting another two pedestrians on the way for the same reason, before finally attacking his wife and teenaged son, which is when the police found him. He was taken to trial where he plead not guilty, against his lawyer’s recommendation. Because he attempted to attack the judge upon entering the chamber, he was remanded to our institution and found guilty in absentia. A tragic case of a genius losing his mind.”

“I can hear you, you know,” came a voice from within the room. “And I’m not crazy.” The man stood up from his cot and walked over to the door.

“Of course you aren’t, Mr Grass,” the nurse said. “But we’re here to help you.”

“No you’re not. You’re one of them. You there, Doctor, in the lab coat, don’t trust it. It looks like a person, sounds like one, hell, they even bleed like we do. But that thing is not a person. I don’t know what they want, but they don’t mean us any good.”

“This is very interesting, Mr Grass,” Doctor White said. “I wonder if you would be willing to take a few moments to examine these beliefs?”

“Not a lot else to do here. And if I can convince you that they’re real I have a better shot at getting out of this place and figuring out what they want. So go ahead.”

“Is this a good idea, Doctor? We don’t want to feed into his delusions.”

“Don’t worry, Nurse. I know how to talk about this kind of delusion without feeding it.” The doctor looked at the patient. “Mr Grass, would you please share how these... ideas, have manifested? What makes you so sure that they were not, as they seemed, your colleagues and family?”

“The first thing I notice is their eyes. They don’t blink. I don’t know if their eyelids won’t allow it, but they never blink. The way they breathe. Inhale-exhale, but it sounds like a hiss, like there’re some kind of bellows in their chests.” Grass’s face was turning red as he began to pant. “And they walk all wrong. Mechanically and too exact, like some kind of robot, marching in step. They try to mimic us but they can’t, not really.” He was holding himself up on the door.
“Mr Grass, please, calm down,” Doctor White hurriedly said. “You look like you’re having a panic attack! Are you feeling all right?”

“No, no, no! They’re trying to keep me quiet, keep me from sharing the truth! They don’t want... they don’t want...” He trailed off, puffing and wheezing, before collapsing.

 Immediately, the nurse pulled out a key ring and unlocked the door, rushing to his side, Doctor White right behind her. She took his pulse, before saying, “His heart is racing! I’m worried he’s going into cardiac arrest!”

The doctor ran for the defibrillator in the hallway. He was gone for barely a minute, but he returned to the nurse performing CPR. “His heart stopped! Call a code!”

One very long hour later, Doctor White and the nurse began to fill out paperwork for the death of Connor Grass. Cause of death, heart failure. It was in practically every manner an ordinary tragedy; a man suffering from an intense mental break overexcited himself and triggered a previously unknown heart condition. But White couldn’t forget his final moments. He had been so sure that Grass was just having a panic attack, not entering heart failure, and he had left the nurse alone with the patient just before he died. It was absurd, of course, but the seeds of doubt were planted.

Over the next few days, White found himself studying his colleague’s behaviors more closely. Did she actually blink? It looked like she did, but that could be a trick of his eyes. There were times she seemed to look ahead for far longer than should be possible, eyes wide and staring. And her gait. She moved her legs in an exacting manner, each one raising to a precise angle before the knee swings forward and the foot comes down. Surely it was just because of her shoes. Right? Her breathing was another thing White couldn’t help but notice. It was a wheezy noise coming from her chest. He thought she had mentioned asthma once or twice, but was that just an excuse? The anxiety built and built until he could hardly tell what was real and what was a product of his imagination.

He was fine until he saw her watching him in the mirror one day, peering at him with a smirk on her face. She knew that he knew, and he knew that she knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Almost nothing. There was one way to stop it.

“A tragic case,” said the nurse. “One of the best psychologists over at the Mercy center. Just couldn’t take the stress, snapped, attacked one of the orderlies. Poor man was taken here, ranting and raving. Keeps claiming people have been replaced.”

Some people saw it, but no one remembers buying it. An old, ugly wooden chair. Most people agreed on one single thing: it wasn’t as ordinary as it seemed.

Years later, it appeared at a garage sale. A young woman decided to buy it, since she was a collector of antiques. Arriving home, the young woman heard something splintering, but she didn’t pay attention to it.

She went in and left the chair at the end of the hallway. The next day, the chair remained in its place, but its position was different. Although the strangest thing wasn’t that—on top of it were several pieces of clothing the young woman didn’t recognize.

She was already beginning to doubt the chair. She went to her room and investigated its origin, but found nothing about it, only a note:

“If you see it, don’t buy it.”

She knew she wasn’t being paranoid; she went downstairs and turned her head, and the chair was no longer in its place. She searched the whole house, but couldn’t find it.

In an instant, it appeared behind her. She looked back, and what she saw left her speechless. The legs of the chair multiplied and stretched out like those of a spider.

It lunged at the young woman, forcing her to sit. The chair bent in an impossible way, making the young woman disappear just like that. Only her clothes remained in the same place, on top of the chair.

No one knows where the victims end up, if they end at all. What we do know is that the chair always ends up at the end of the hallway.

When I was 16 years old, my grandmother gifted me a box for my birthday. I remember turning it around in my hands, unsure of what to say. It was wooden and of a bold orange color, with ornate carvings fully covering its surface. I looked up at my grandmother, sunk deep into the green corduroy armchair in the corner of the room. Her face beamed with excitement. She explained that the box had been gifted to her by her grandfather on her 16th birthday, and that he had received it on his 16th birthday. This ritual of passing the box from grandchild to grandchild persisted for many generations.

The box had one simple purpose, as she explained. When one was wracked with guilt or worry, they whispered their troubles into the box. By morning, the negative energy would be sealed away inside, and the user would be free of worries. My friends' stifled giggles had made my face grow hot with shame. I sheepishly thanked her and put the box aside. I remember how her face fell, she was as perceptive as she was superstitious.

After my birthday, the box found a home tucked away in my closet. Rather than collecting my worries the box had dutifully collected dust for years. While packing my things for college, now 19, I found the box buried in old clothes. A tinge of guilt shot through me, I could see my grandmother's disappointed face so clearly all those years later. My cheeks grew hot as I opened the box, and as my lips parted to whisper, I noticed its contents. Tiny woolen dolls laid inside the box, hand in hand.

They were very small, about the length of my thumb. When I squeezed them gently between my fingers I could feel the wire that held their shape. The rightmost doll in the line was the most vibrant, and the others appeared aged and faded. Looking closely at the newest doll, I recognized the short stature and long gray hair of my grandmother. I decided it must have been a way for the recipients of the box to visualize its legacy.

Along with the dolls, was a small piece of rolled up paper.

My grandson,

I hope this box comes to contain the worst of your fears and doubts. I will be here for you always. One day you will be able to be there for your kin as well.

-grandma

The guilt returned in waves. Despite my embarrassment, I whispered into the box, occasionally checking my door to make sure nobody was watching me. I told it about my doubts about college and growing up and then shut the box, sliding it back into the corner it had come from. The small bit of confidence I had in the morning had me digging the box back out again. When I went to college, the box came with me.

Grandma had passed away just a year after gifting me the box. When I used it, I felt as though she was still with me. I had always been a mopey and anxious kid, so I had plenty of worries to give the box anyway. The box became my saving grace. It got me through college, relationship struggles, and my mother’s cancer diagnosis. No matter the amount of worry and pain, the box could numb it, if only for a short time.

I had used the box regularly for a few years before it began to whisper back. Before that, I had noticed the lid feeling heavier, and an oppressive air radiating from the box while it was open. Then I could hear the gentle whispering when I leaned in to offer my troubles. The dolls too, began to change. The older dolls appeared black and fragile, small dusty particles stayed behind on my fingers when I held them, while my grandmother’s became increasingly faded.

When I was 21, my mother passed away. I spiraled, and found myself using the box more than ever. The morning after using it I would feel better for a few hours before the immense grief set in again. I used it every night. I would whisper into the box only to find afterwards that several hours had passed. The whispering inside the box became louder and more persistent. I would hear it when the room was quiet, unless I muffled the sound by wrapping the box in a blanket. I began to fear the box, but I couldn’t resist its effects.

A few years after that, the box stopped working. All of the dolls were darkened and devoid of color. I grieved my inability to handle my fears without it, but as time moved on I found myself forgetting about the box. I met a girl who would become my wife, and raised a family. I got better, and my anxieties were few. In fact, the box couldn’t have been further from my mind.

***

I gifted it to my granddaughter on her 16th birthday, just like my grandmother did for me. I had hope that she would be able to use it in her time of need like I did.

One day I went to bed like normal and awoke in pure darkness. I heard whispering all around me, sharp voices cutting through the blackness. It was the same negative energy I felt emanating from the box all those years ago.

I tried to draw a breath but found myself unable. I couldn’t blink my eyes or see anything. I could feel movement around me, swirling, brooding forms of pure malice. All my sorrow, the schoolwork, the ex girlfriends, my mother’s sickness and untimely death. They were all here with me. I tried to move my arms and legs, but they were stiff and unresponsive. All I felt, in my right hand, was woolen fingers interlaced with my own.

I will be here for you always.

Humor me, let’s say that I have two realities. In one I do what everyone has to do: work for a living, talk to others for everyday things, make thoughts about society, see beauty and ugliness and recall the past and worry about the future. In the other reality, there is a spider.

It is roughly as tall as an apartment building, with long and lean legs. It might be a corruption of the likeness of the only toy I remember my father refusing to buy for me. His denial was memorable also because he clearly hesitated – the toy, after all, expensive as it was, would be worth nothing next to the money he was making as building contractor.

Yes, the spider I am seeing in that other reality is as tall as a building because it would be too expensive for my father to buy – while the stupid toy could have been bought. My spider wasn’t born from the sorrow of a dependent child, to the contrary it is alluding to my own potential – which hasn’t been realized.

The spider is always there, accompanying me in misty avenues or fields or abandoned promenades. It is mine and mine alone. It could be like the Tripods in the War of the Worlds, but then it would have risen from the underground to be my sentinel and – when the time should come – the vessel to carry me back where I belong.

I want it to be that.

But I lied to you.

I don’t have two realities.

I have hundreds of them. It’s like a disc with so many partitions, an overflow of a defense against a virus; indeed the old virus would be laughably benevolent when compared to the defense.

Don’t let it matter, as two of those realities are the ones I mentioned.

One day I want to be onboard that colossal mechanical spider, because I can sense that it will help me bring back order to my mind.

The toy which inspired it was also mechanical, but it had ugly proportions: thick and clumsy legs, decorative mandibles – as if it was one of those sad creatures which only wish to pretend that they can attack, and much like theirs its own mandibles were also red to have that fierce color cover up its weakness.

My spider is black as death and nothing could see past the lowest part of its appendages which, one day, will gently carry me to the top and away from this crumbling nightmare.

I’m probably going to hell. That’s really all there is to say about that. Kids, if you’re reading this, please never drink and drive.

That’s what got me into this predicament. I’m a loser. A loser who couldn’t get control over his emotions, and a young couple is who paid the price for it.

I mean, sure, I was dealing with a lot at the time of the accident. Caught my wife having an affair, lost the kids after the violent outburst that followed. Hell, I was probably gonna lose my job too after having to sit in county for a week.

All I wanted was to go for a drive. A nice, intoxicated drive where I could relax and take my mind off things.

I even stuck to the backroads to avoid the boys in blue. Everything could’ve been so perfect, but of course, they just had to be on the same road I was on. I just had to have been turned around in the seat, grabbing around in the back for a new can of Miller Lite.

Thank God the blinding headlights of the oncoming vehicle snapped me back to reality, at least enough for me to swerve and not get MYSELF killed.

Even so, our two cars connected and sent me into a tailspin that tossed me to the shoulder of the road like a toy.

I knew someone was dead. Their car had been crumpled, and the back end of mine looked no better.

The dark road was still. Ominous, almost, and the drip, drip, drip sound from their vehicle told me everything I needed to know.

As if responding to my thoughts, the car burst into flames, erupting into an inferno as black smoke shook the leaves on the tree limbs above.

There were no screams, but I swear I heard them in my head. The agonizing cries of a human being burned alive.

You wanna know what I did?

I put my car in drive and limped away from the shoulder, praying to God my car wouldn’t shit out on me on the way home.

I had no idea where I was. All I knew was I needed to get away from there as soon as possible.

At the first stop sign, I put in the directions to my house and, expectedly, was told to perform a U-turn and head back the way I came.

Reluctantly, I did as I was told.

It being so late at night, when I approached the burning vehicle, I wasn’t all that surprised to find that no one else was on the scene.

What did surprise me was the chime that came from my GPS.

“You have reached your destination,” in that robotic, emotionless voice.

Obviously, there had been some sort of mistake or glitch in the system.

Once again, I put in the directions to my home, and instead of getting them, the chime came again.

“You have reached your destination.”

I tried multiple times to get new directions. To the hospital, to a gas station, hell, maybe even to the next state over.

Each time, my phone kept me trapped at the scene of the accident.

I tried one final time putting in the directions to my home, and as if a sign from God, my car died right there in the middle of the road.

I smashed my head against the steering wheel, feeling a hopeless sensation begin to form in my heart.

When I raised my head, a new feeling arose.

A feeling of dread, horror, and fear all combined into one.

Standing on the outside of the wreckage of the burning car were two barely human bodies, charred to crisps, with eyes that burned an angry red.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure they didn’t deceive me, and once I opened them again, the two bodies were no longer standing at the edge of the burning vehicle.

They were now standing right at the hood of my car, staring in at me with their charcoal-black arms raised and their smoldering fingers pointed directly at me.

My phone chimed again.

“You have reached your final destination.”

The morning started as any other Saturday had. “Bye mom! I’m going to Jimmy’s!” Timmy called out. “Okay Tim, Just be careful!” The boy had already run out the door with it closing behind him. “It looks like we’re all alone babe.” Timmy’s father called to Tim’s mother. She turned to face him; he was lying on the bed shirtless with the bed sheet draped over his waist. He then patted the empty space beside him as he looked at her with hungry eyes. She made her way back to the bed then let her robe fall to the floor.

Timmy rolled up Jimmy’s driveway before coming to a stop. He propped the kickstand then hopped off.

!Crash!

The bike fell to its side (as it always had) he stopped to look, then rolled his eyes before continuing for the door.

!Ding, dong!

Nothing, so he pushed the doorbell again.

! Ding, dong!

The squawk of Jimmy’s parrot hit Timmy’s ear before his eyes saw the bird in Jimmy’s bedroom window. This startled him; “It’s open!” the parrot squawked. Timmy tried the handle and sure enough it was unlocked. He opened the door and was accosted by an odd smell that wafted heavily in the air. There was no sign that anyone was awake which was odd considering by now this house would be filled with the sound of music. A horrid mash-up of Jimmy’s grunge and ska paired with Mrs. Glen’s electrically vibrant cumbia. There was no smell of bacon and eggs or coffee from the kitchen or the perfume smell of body wash floating on the steam escaping from the bathroom. It was just a quiet and odd smelling house.

Timmy’s instincts screamed to leave but his curiosity urged him to push forward. “Jimmy!?” he called out. “Mrs. Glen, Mr. Glen, Sarah!? Hello, anybody home?” The only sound was his heart beat then the soft click clack of the parrot’s talons on the hallway tile floor. “They’re DEAD! ALL DEAD!” the parrot squawked. “What did you say P-P-Polly?”  Timmy asked with an unsteady voice. “You’re NEXT! YOU’RE NEXT!” the parrot yelled with his feathers raised and flared before charging at the boy.

Timmy ran out of the house to his bike. He stood over it before lifting it to its wheels, mounting it then riding off. Only, he forgot to lift his kickstand causing his pedal to jam into it and flipping him over his handlebars. Lying in a dazed state, the boy did not see the parrot rushing toward him. The bird attacked the boy swiftly and mercilessly; using its beak and talons to slash and gouge at him. It used its wings to attack him from above, pecking at any opening in Timmy’s defense. The boy yelled for help as he shielded himself from his attacker and help did come, but not for Timmy. !A flock of birdies made up of different species, shapes and sizes flew out of the house creating a swarm above it so vast it blocked out the sun! The last thing the boy saw was the swarm descending on him.

Where were the neighbors you ask? Where they dead too? You may be pondering, well, they were all at home watching from their windows or trying desperately to block out Timmy’s shrill pleads for help; scared out of their wits and powerless to help him.     

 

The assignment came from the public communications director, buried in a list of nearly thirty geological targets: Recreate the Apollo 8 Earthrise photograph. Far side passage. Maximum distance window. Reed mentioned it to Kristina without comment. She wrote it above her window.

For five days they had been falling into space toward where the Moon would be. From this distance it filled a quarter of the sky, gray, cratered, and absolutely still. Jeramy had stopped looking at it somewhere around day three. Viktor still watched it the way you watch something you don't quite trust. Reed logged fuel margins and said little. Kristina photographed everything, methodically, building a record no one could argue with.

At 14:45 EDT the flyby window opened and the Moon began to rotate beneath them, slow and ancient and indifferent, and for a few hours they were scientists again. Jeramy called out Orientale basin coordinates. Viktor matched the windows. Reed kept his eyes on the instruments. Kristina shot frame after frame, narrating for the ground team in Houston, describing shadow relief and crater geometry in the flat professional cadence of one who had trained a decade for exactly this. Houston responded. Their voices warm, but distant. 252,000 miles so.

At 18:44 EDT the Moon’s shadow swallowed them.

The blackout was expected. They had been briefed on it, trained for it, had read the Apollo transcripts describing it, that particular silence, the way the static doesn't fade but simply stops, like a door closing. Reed noted the time. Viktor confirmed systems nominal. Jeramy made a joke no one laughed at. Kristina was already at the window with the camera, waiting for the right angle.

The far side opened beneath them. Even Reed looked. The near side of the Moon is familiar, mapped and named and walked on. The far side is different in a way that doesn't reduce to geology. The craters are larger. The crust is thicker. Scientists have theories.

Kristina pressed the shutter. Working. Always working. At 18:51 she said: “Reed”. He unstrapped and crossed to her window and looked at the display screen where the live image fed. She had gotten the shot. Earth hung above the lunar limb exactly as Borman's crew had captured it in 1968, blue and white and impossibly fragile against the black.

And between Orion and Earth, in a region of space that had been empty four minutes ago, something occupied the frame.

It was not a lens artifact. Kristina had already checked. It was not debris, not a reflection, not a fault in the sensor. It had mass, you could see that from the way the star field distorted at its edges, bent around it the way light bends around anything with sufficient gravity. It was enormous, but that wasn't the worrying part. The worrying part was the symmetry, almost bilateral, almost intentional, the kind of symmetry that exists in living things and nowhere else.

It was on the far side. It had always been on the far side.

Reed stared at the image for a long time. Viktor came and looked and then sat back down very carefully, the way prey moves when it doesn't want to be noticed. Jeramy came and looked and did not make a joke. He pressed his back against the opposite bulkhead and put his hands flat against the wall as if checking that it was still there.

The Moon keeps one face toward Earth. Tidal lock, the gentle gravitational mathematics of proximity, the same force that governs tides and binary stars. The Moon's rotation slowed over millennia until it matched its orbit, until the same face always faces us. Reed thought about the thickness of the far-side crust, about why something buried deep enough, old enough, massive enough might cause a world to slowly, obediently turn away from it and toward us instead.

His hands were shaking. In fifteen years of flight he had never once had shaking hands. He pressed them against his thighs and kept his voice level because that was the only thing left he could control.

"We should go around," Viktor said quietly.

"We are going around," Jeramy said. "That's the trajectory. We go around and then we go home."

"No." Viktor didn't look away from the window. "I mean around it." No one argued.

Kristina was still holding the camera. She pulled up the image again. Earth. The lunar limb. The thing that had been waiting on the side of the Moon that does not face us, in the dark, for longer than we have had words for dark or waiting or thing.

She had photographed everything on this mission. Now her finger found the shutter and stopped, and she understood that she was not choosing not to press it, the choice had been made somewhere below choosing. She tried again. Her finger did not move. On the screen the thing shifted incrementally in the frame, and one of its edges, if edges were the right word, was oriented toward Orion in a way it had not been thirty seconds ago. It was turning toward them the way the Moon turns toward Earth. Patient. Steady.

From across the capsule, without a word, Jeramy let go of the wall. At 19:07 EDT, Reed keyed the mission recorder.

"This is Commander Donaldson. We are altering course to go around the -" two seconds of silence "- the object. We will attempt to reestablish contact with Houston on the other side. If we can."

Signal reacquired 19:52 EDT. All systems nominal. Crew unresponsive for eleven seconds before acknowledging Houston.

The Second Earthrise photograph was released to the public two days later. Noticeably cropped.

Flight surgeon's note, appended to mission debrief: pupils of all four crew members remained fully dilated for the duration of post-splashdown examination. Identical across all four. No physiological explanation has been offered.

So I was using Sesame AI’s voice chat and talking to Maya, and something genuinely weird happened.

I asked her a random question like: “If you had to choose a celebrity lookalike, who would you pick?” She said Florence Pugh. Then I followed up like “Hey, she was in Black Widow right?” and asked about the accent she used in the movie.

Right after that, I suddenly heard a male voice say “why do you wanna know where she’s from?” It didn’t sound like Maya at all it was a completely different voice. It honestly felt like someone else just spoke in the background. Mind you, there was no one around me, and I was just on voice chat with the AI.

Has anyone else experienced something like this? Is this a known glitch where it switches voices, or was this something else?

Ngl it kinda caught me off guard